I unknowingly trespassed onto the Yalper’s territory this morning. Now he’s challenged me to some sort of primal duel.
His office is between mine and the maintenance warehouse at the back of the building. As I passed his door on my way to work, I nodded and tipped my coffee cup to him. He stood up, slapped his face, and puffed his cheeks. I obviously misread him.
“Back atcha,” I said. I smiled politely and continued on to my office; then I logged onto my computer, stamped my digital time sheet, and sipped my coffee. That was over an hour ago.
Now, he is standing in the foyer, howling and beating his chest. His white oxford shirt lies on the floor in streaks, surrounded by the corpses of ivory buttons. His shoes are gone, and his socks lie lifeless on the copy machine. He’s wrapped his tie around his head like a kamikaze, and he’s ripped his undershirt in half.
I’m afraid to move from my seat: movement seems to trigger him; if I sit still long enough, maybe he’ll forget I’m here and go back to work. Regardless, I’m hoping he tires himself out by lunchtime. I forgot to pack a lunch this morning, so I’ll have to buy something from the food truck outside.
In the meantime, I’ll put on some music, sip my coffee, and get back to work.